One, who can point a finger at One's Self,
shall find sources of many problems,
and many plausible genuine solutions,
quicker and more often than any who cannot.

untethered
through the dark,
we tread
across that familiar park

on the path coarse
she rose
graceful and free
she moves
like a gentle breeze
on a mid-summer night
our elbows locked
she turns and dances
giving life to a shadow
in the streetlight, static
and yellow

a commune of silhouettes
beyond the lake
like wonted mores
try to reach us ashore,
spellbound by the water
the black reflection ripples
and moves into stillness

red tinted clouds
drift miles above us
granting glimpses
of an indigo night sky
dotted with distant stars
and an orange Mars

almost time now
she spots the International Space Station,
a white lucent shine,
rise up from the vagrant reds in the west
and draw a lucid arc
across the indigo canvas
a deft motion of a compass tip
subtle, taut
and at ease

the white glow dims
and then fades
as the night turns on itself
we rest
on that wooden bench
overlooking the lake
just being
watching

the midnight drama
unfold,
like a fountain spring forth,
a breath we hear

take shape
as the ducks play and laugh,
as repeated greets by a shy hedgehog
as the bats in acrobatic flight
and the long white fluffy thing
which to this day
remains mysterious
to 26 and 21

the ubiquitous black intense
is void no more
awake we are
and our souls, a choir
a breath cosmic,
flowing
untethered